The Fade kj-2 Read online

  I nod. My head lolls, not entirely faked.

  'The name is Belek Aspa.'

  The faintest tickle of recollection, but so distant that I can't hope to remember. I shake my head.

  'You have never heard mention of this name?' he persists. 'Your master has never spoken it while you have been nearby? He trusts you, he would not fear to discuss secret matters in front of you.'

  Now I'm curious. Enough to risk a query. 'Who's Belek Aspa?'

  'I am asking the questions,' Gendak says.

  And he does. He asks me directly about the size of the Eskaran forces, about my masters' intentions concerning the war, about chthonomancers and their Blackwings and how they power their craft, about Craggens and Ya'yeen and how they integrate with our society, about the mines and our technology and weapons manufacture. He asks me about our attitudes and beliefs towards the Gurta, he asks about fortifications in the Borderlands. He asks about the squabbles of the Plutarchs and the sway of politics. But I get the impression that the Magister lost interest the moment I said I'd never heard of Belek Aspa, and indeed he's soon obviously bored.

  I'm grilled by Gendak endlessly, and I lie over and over again, giving him false locations, reinforcing myths, feigning ignorance. It's stunning what they don't know about us; almost as appalling as what the average Eskaran doesn't know about them. The scribe takes it all down. I enlighten them not one bit, and yet when they're finished they think they've gained the deepest of insights, a view into the heart of their enemy. The drug has been entirely cleansed from me by now, and my head is clear again.

  The Magister leaves with a triumphant look at Gendak, and his scribe follows him. Gendak sits heavily in his chair, his pale grey eyes full of sorrow. We're alone. I'm not sure what to expect from him now.

  'I did not want it to be this way,' he says. 'This was not my intention.'

  I don't reply.

  'I'm a good man, Orna,' he tells me, and there's a note of pleading in his voice. 'I'm a man of peace and learning. I wanted you to see that. I do not imagine you ever will, now.'

  And still I don't answer. And I won't, either. Does he want sympathy from me? Understanding? Is he asking me to absolve him? Not going to happen. Because he might very well be a good man, he might have a noble heart and be learned and compassionate, he might have sons and daughters and he might love them and he might genuinely want to reach me; but he's still a fucking Gurta under all of that, so as far as I'm concerned, I'd like to bludgeon him to death with his own jawbone.

  'You'll meet the Elder soon,' he says, almost to himself, as he gets up and makes for the door to let the guards in. 'You might consider that an honour.'

  Perhaps he supposes I'm too groggy to remember his comment. Perhaps he genuinely believes I don't know what will happen. But I think this is his way of saying goodbye. I've heard the rumours. I know what kind of honour he means.

  They're done with me now: they think they've milked me dry. I'll join the squalling freaks that the prisoners speak of, chained in the depths of the prison. One of the Elder's living experiments. A Cadre woman for him to play with.

  Next turn, they'll come for me. If I'm not gone by then, I'll face the worst of all fates. I'm taken straight from there to the food hall. They've recently started feeding us before our shifts in the forge instead of halfway through or afterward. Another one of their random and annoying changes meant to divulge some insight into our behaviour or metabolisms or whatever. I have no idea what their real purpose is, or if there's a purpose at all, and I don't care. By next turn I hope to never have to think of it again.

  I sit with Feyn, as usual. He knows something's up. I tell him about the interrogation. Charn comes over and sits down, tearing at a hank of lichen-bread with his teeth. A moment later, Nereith also joins us, sensing a conversation he doesn't want to miss. Their new closeness with Feyn and me has been noted by their companions.

  'Time we cleared a few things up,' Charn says.

  'Like what?'

  'Like you haven't even told us the details of this plan of yours yet, and the Elder's coming next turn, and that's our time, right?' He's been worrying at this particular subject ever since I got back from my trip outside. Every time I put him off it frustrates him more. 'You think we ought to know what we're doing, since you're asking us to risk our lives?'

  'I'm not asking you to do anything. Stay if you want,' I reply.

  'You know what I mean,' he snarls, poking a finger at me. 'Take me, for instance. Surrounded by guards. Can't even go for a piss break without an escort. How you planning on getting me out of there without anyone noticing?'

  'It's covered,' I assure him.

  'You said that, so why the secrecy?'

  I fix him with a level glare. 'Because there's four lives here at stake, including mine, and I've lived for a long time by not trusting anyone. Now I'll tell you all what to do just before next turn's shift, and it'll all run smoothly.'

  'You believe that one of us would betray the others?' Feyn enquired.

  'Could, not would. I'm not taking the chance.'

  'And yet we have to trust you,' Charn sulks.

  'I'm the one with the plan,' I tell him equably.

  He gets up and goes back to his own table, where his welcome is muted. They're not so fond of him any more.

  Nereith glances over at him, and back to me. 'I'm very interested to hear how you intend to solve that little problem he just mentioned.' He grins. 'Unless, of course, you're not.'

  'You're not solving it?' Feyn asks me.

  Nereith explains. He likes to show off how smart he is. 'It's impossible to get Charn out the same way we're going. As a blacksmith, he's too well guarded. He served his purpose, and now we're leaving him behind.'

  Feyn looks at me, black eyes calm. The Khaadu's got me.

  'This turn the fort is in chaos,' I tell Feyn. 'Last-minute preparations. By the time the Elder arrives, most of the chaos will be over. We're not going to wait until the next shift. We're going now.'

  'You really are quite ruthless sometimes, Orna,' Nereith says, a hint of admiration in his voice.

  'Shouldn't have tried to rape me, should he?' I reply with a shrug, and go back to my food.

  20

  I sleep in my underwear on the stone floor of the junk room, so as not to crease my dress. I was never very prissy about comfort, even before I got used to sleeping in a cave, and my ribs and thighs have toughened from lying on my side on the hard ground. At least it's warm. The river of spume rock heats the cavern well; either that, or we're deeper beneath the surface than I thought.

  I wake to near-total darkness. I had to replace the lantern in case it was missed, and I didn't want to bring light into the room for fear that it would be seen from the yard. I dress and arrange my hair by feel. Not easy, but the way it falls naturally is good enough.

  I spend the time until my return making preparations. I've been counting the bells, even in my sleep. Simple awareness training. I have to hope they won't change my group's shift to work the forge, or I'll be noticeably out of place on my return. It's a real likelihood, given the randomness of our schedule.

  I find a vantage point and spend most of the turn watching the comings and goings of the carts and wagons in the courtyard. The traffic is sporadic, but there's almost always one or two there, being unloaded or waiting while their drivers water their chila. They're in no hurry. The guards chat to the drivers, the workers chat to each other instead of unloading, everyone smokes. Small stacks of crates have accumulated, waiting for someone to take them away. I guess they're machine parts and weapons from the forge. Our work, ready to be picked up and taken to the front to be used against our people. I wonder what other prison industries they have going here.

  By the time I leave, I'm satisfied that getting out of the main gate on a cart is possible. Nobody checks carts at the gate; they do it on the bridge over the river, where there's a wider thoroughfare. The yard is cluttered and carts are left unattended for long periods
of time. I'm sure that, by the time the Elder gets here, this will all be immaculately ordered and clear, but until then, it's a mess. That helps me a great deal.

  Of course, I remind myself, getting out of the gates is the easy part. Beyond them, there's no way to sneak through that flat area surrounding the fort, and stowing on a cart won't get us over the bridge. Also, how do I move my little group from the Overseer's office to the junk room without anyone spotting us? It's only a short way, but to make it there without coming across anyone at all? We'd have to be lucky. I don't want to rely on luck; that gets people killed.

  As to that, I have an idea. It'll take a few more minor preparations, but they're not a problem. I consider stealing preserved food from storage and scrounging up some packs, but there's no point. We couldn't carry the extra weight, not with the route I intend to take. We'll just have to rely on what we can find as we go. That's Feyn's job.

  I'd get a map if I could, but the opportunity just doesn't come and it's too dangerous to try. Still, I don't like trusting Nereith to see us home. Something tells me he could turn on us in an instant. His connection to Silverfish unsettles me.

  Twice on my travels I have scholars or guards demanding tasks of me, and once a horny chirurgeon tries to commandeer my body for a while. Each time I beg them not to interrupt my task for General Daraka. I've no idea who General Daraka is, but dropping that name makes them back off fast. I'd heard the guards speak of him with fear and reverence in the forge, and it seems his reputation is well known.

  I'm almost done when I hit a snag.

  It happens as I'm emerging from the door at the top of the spiral stairs leading to my hideout. I've just shut it and walked away when I hear footfalls in the corridor coming towards me. I don't know how I know – it's the same intuition that tells you someone is going to cross the street and talk to you – but I get a bad feeling about them. It's too late to turn around and go back, too late to do anything without looking suspicious. So I keep walking.

  It's a slave in a cobalt blue dress. She's a little younger than me, pretty in a curious sort of way, the kind of face that's interesting but you can't work out why. Taut with carefully suppressed anger. It deepens as she sees me, and I realise who this is.

  ~ That's my dress, you filthy thief! ~ she snarls in her masters' language. Slaves are forbidden to speak Eskaran even between themselves.

  ~ You must be mistaken ~ I reply calmly, but something is sinking inside me and it keeps on sinking.

  She doesn't even hear me. ~ Ellya told me she'd seen a new slave scurrying around in my clothes ~ she says, her face close to mine. ~ Your master too poor to buy you something decent? What'd you do, steal it from the laundry pile? ~

  I try once again, feigning surprise. ~ But this is my dress. Perhaps yours is similar, but I don't thi-~

  She slaps me. Hard. ~ Slut! Don't even try it. Take it off, now! ~

  I don't move. There are tears in my eyes. She thinks it's because of the slap, or perhaps it's the useless remorse of a caught thief; she's wrong on both counts.

  ~ I'm sorry ~ I tell her.

  ~ It's no good being so-~

  I kill her. A single hard strike to a nerve point behind her ear, fast and vicious. She drops, dead before she's hit the floor.

  'I'm sorry,' I tell her again.

  I drag her body a few dozen spans to the door and pull her down the stairs into the junk room. I cry the whole way. Not for her, even though she was an innocent; and not for me, because I had necessity on my side. I cry because I'm so fucking frustrated and angry at this war, this endless war and the horror it brings. I cry because I'm in a prison where they dissect and experiment on their inmates while out there my son risks his life for a futile cause. And I cry because this woman didn't know any better than to be a servant of the race that kidnapped her as a child, and in the end I had to kill her for it. There was no possibility of bargaining. She'd have sold me out in a heartbeat.

  I hate this world. All my life I've managed to ignore that, to shelve it away in the dusty recesses of the least-visited corner of my mind; but it's been with me ever since I was enslaved, and I'm not sure it'll ever go away. Since Rynn died, everything changed. Like everybody, I've always existed in a cradle spun from deceptions of my own making. They seem so flimsy and pointless now. Things are clearer as they fade. Simpler.

  I have to get back to my son. That's all. With everything ready and the body of the slave safely stashed in a chest in the junk room, it's time to break back into the forge and resume my role as a prisoner. I've fashioned a hook on a sturdy length of thread to fish the key off the peg for my return. I'm expecting it to be a whole lot easier than getting it on to the peg was. There won't be time to pick it, not with the crude tools I have to hand.

  I head back to the Overseer's office. The dim corridors surrounding it are, as ever, almost empty. I play it extra careful though, just in case I run into the blonde slave who attends the Overseer. I guess that she's the Ellya who told on me. She recognised the dress when she saw me coming out of the dignitary's room. Best not to meet her again. I don't want to have to kill her too.

  The next stop is the storage room where I left my clothes. I carefully refold my slave attire and leave it here, then pull on my gear. It feels filthy against my skin, but it's familiar. I've fought dozens of battles in these clothes, stolen gems and lives and secrets. Finally I tie my hair up with a length of black ribbon.

  I'm back to my old self again.

  A short creep later, I'm standing outside the Overseer's door, listening. It's a risk, but I can't think of any other way to do it. I know by the bells when the shifts stop and start, but without a pocket-watch it's hard to estimate when the Overseer will leave his office to make his rounds, and I can't chance missing it. If anyone comes, or if the Overseer comes out…

  Nothing to be done. So I wait. He shuffles things about and coughs, occasionally opening a drawer. But luck is on my side and my timing is good. I've been there only a short time when I hear him unlocking the door to the forge. The growl and hiss of that choking, seething world swells and fades, and then he's locked it behind him and he's gone.

  Now I have to get in. It turns out, unexpectedly, to be easier than I thought. I've just taken the hook and thread out of my pocket when habit makes me check the keyhole. He's left the key in the door on the other side. I almost laugh out loud. It seems our Overseer is more absent-minded than I gave him credit for. Quickly, I take off my shirt, slide it under the door, and poke the key through with one of my stolen hairpins. The key falls onto the shirt and I pull it back, the key with it. I open the door and I'm in.

  The office is as drab as it was when I left it. I don't waste time. Locking the door behind me, I shuck my shirt back on and do it up, then take out the key Charn made and, keeping low, I open the door to the forge.

  A billow of heat and dirty air greets me: the forge's welcome home. Suddenly I'm struck by the absurdity of giving up this chance of an easy escape. My slave's disguise won't be any use by the time I return. Sooner or later the woman I killed will be missed, Ellya will talk, and suspicions will be raised. But not for a while. If I go now, I can get away. It would be simple.

  At the top of the metal stairs, crouching behind the barrier that shields me from sight, I very nearly turn back. Every sensible part of my brain tells me to do it, and listening to sense over passion has kept me alive in the past.

  But I don't. I tell myself it's because I've made a deal, but that's not it at all.

  Close and lock, stash the key in my belt, down the stairs. Staying low, unseen. I reach the bottom of the stairs and the only guards there are looking into the forge, watching the workers. It's a short dash to cover, and from there it's simple. I begin to recognise some of the prisoners and I know I've got the right shift.

  Not long afterward I emerge from the shadows of the machinery next to the furnaces, where Nereith is shovelling fuel. He sees me, makes no reaction. Hands me an extra shovel. I get to work. None o
f the others say a word.

  I'm back. But not for long.

  21

  Fortune favours me. Overseer Arachi's office is buried among a small tangle of badly lit and narrow corridors. I try the first door I come to, eager to avoid the returning slave. It's a storeroom, piled with dusty sacks of spores, pots of dried spice and barrels of wine. There is a torch in the bracket, but it's unlit. Perfect.

  I close the door behind me. The line of light around the edge is just enough to see by. In the near-darkness, I strip and undo the parcel of clothes. It's a red dress, made of light material, the sleeves and collar decorated with gold thread. I slip it on and adjust it. The fit is good. Nereith even had them spray it with scented water in the laundry room. Nice touch. It's a little crumpled, but it's been well folded and the material doesn't crease easily. Gravity should iron out the rest.

  I have to keep a low profile wearing this thing. There are a lot of new slaves arriving in advance of the Elder's visit, so strangers won't be suspected, but if the slave who owns this dress should catch me, it's over. That aside, my presence should remain unnoticed. What other possible reason could an Eskaran woman have to be in a Gurta fort, unless she was a slave? Also, my age gives me a certain seniority which should deflect any casual probing from the younger girls. Since slaves are exclusively taken when very young, it will be assumed that I have been one all my life.

  Disguises work, in my experience, because people are not naturally suspicious. The thought of a prisoner walking among them is too far-fetched to consider; but if I should draw attention to myself, then the ruse will unravel.

  I have slippers too. As I put them on, I notice that my nails need clipping.

  Suddenly I'm struck by an absurd stab of nostalgia. For the parties, the balls, the concerts of the aristocracy; for Casta and Liss and all their bizarre and eccentric friends; for the lights of Veya. Wearing something nice, being even partially clean, leaves me with a desperate longing for home and for the life I had.